Our house, situated in an older neighborhood which is in the throes of revitalization, divides the north and south of lower downtown. To our immediate north lies: 7-11; the Food & Care Coalition; a transitional home for the mentally ill; the liquor store; cheap motels. To our south: the tracks, complete with empty, heated passenger station; Community Action; an unofficial and unmonitored "halfway house" run by a gin-you-wine slumlord (whose butt I would dearly love to kick) for the "benefit" of fellas who aren't "bad" enough to be institutionalized (a highly debatable point, in my book), aren't "good" enough to live in a transitional home, but are overqualified to drift around in various strange attitudes and chemical stupors, scaring neighborhood children and hitting people up for money; an overpass which year-round shelters transients.
My front porch: enclosed; lots of windows; usually locked at night (although apparently not last night); comfortable couch (perfect for napping) outgrown and given to us by elderly friends; various plants, shoes, etc.
This morning on the front porch I discovered a mystery matryoshka of: long-handled basket, fanny pack, luggage keys, and nonworking cell phone. No identification. No clue.
Oh. My. So, did some poor wayfaring man of grief spend the night on my couch under the yellow bug light? This is one of life's disturbing questions. And here are 1000 others.